36. ThirtySix: Sunday

Thirty-Six

Because it would make no sense to go home, not after that, he falls asleep in her bed, his body curled around hers, his nose at the ridge of her shoulder blade. She's warm and soft and amazing, and he loves her. He never wants to leave her again.

So when he reaches the delicate line of sleep, his mind hovering at the hazy edge, he treads it with abandon, blissful and knowing. He loves her.

He maybe loves her a little less when he's jerked awake in the middle of the night by the jab of a sharp elbow into his ribs.

Castle grunts and then shifts to protect himself from another attack; his half-open eye lands on the alarm clock that sits on the bedside table, narrows in an attempt to get a clearer picture.

3:47.

Way too early.

His eyelid snaps shut and he burrows his face into the pillow, intent on going back to sleep, when he first hears it.

A low, almost inaudible whimper that has to be coming from her; a raspy, tiny, painful sound that has him rolling back to her in a matter of seconds. What the hell-

She has her back to him, the elbow that must have woken him pressed tight to her side, her body coiled into a thrumming ball of tension; he pushes himself up on his forearm, his other hand finding a resting place at her hip as he leans forward to get a view of her face.

Her eyes are closed, lips pressed together, this little crease in her forehead she has when she's unhappy or thinking too hard. She shakes her head in her sleep, incoherent mumbles falling from her lips, and oh, okay - she's dreaming.

Not exactly the best kind of dream, looks like.

"Kate," he murmurs, brushing his fingers over her hip, attempting to soothe.

She shivers, and then rolls around to face him, literally crashing into his body, her fingers splaying eagerly on his chest. "No, no," she whispers, and then, in a dark, urgent, thready voice that breaks his heart, "Castle."

He curls his hand over hers, lowers his mouth to the shell of her ear, the line of her jaw, the corner of her mouth. "Hey, hey, hey," he says quietly, letting the sounds permeate her skin. "It's okay, Kate. I'm here."

Shit, did their conversation do this to her? It's not like he had another choice - he never wants to lie to her, never - but if she dreams about him dying for her-

A deep shudder runs through her, and he keeps murmuring her name against her lips, over and over, telling her that he loves her, that he's here, that he's not leaving, until she finally heaves a long, shaky sigh, seems to settle in his arms.

She hasn't woken up at all.

He holds her for a moment longer, savors the weight of her body against his, the sweet smell of her freshly-washed hair. Jeez, this is not exactly encouraging him to go with the whole spend more time with your daughter idea. He'd much rather spend all his nights with her, just in case she needs the comfort of his presence, just-

He sighs.

She's never going to agree to that.

Nope, not a chance. She will give him that gently scolding Beckett look and tell him that dreams happen, that nightmares happen, that she's slept alone for most of her life and she's always made it through the night, and don't be silly, Castle.

Right. He won't be silly. He won't.

Just a nightmare.

He closes his eyes, adjusts his breathing to hers, and lets the slow rhythm of her inhales and exhales lull him back to sleep.

She makes them waffles in the morning. Waffles. He vaguely remembers her mentioning it - he thinks - among the amazing list of the things her mother used to make for Sunday brunch, but seeing it... Yeah. Wow.

It makes him realize that he's actually never been with someone who can cook.

Meredith never went anywhere near the kitchen, as far as he can remember; he was always the one handling Alexis's baby bottles, always the one making food when it had to be made. Meredith would eat out in bars and cafés and restaurants, would come home with pizza or whatever she'd found on her way home; obviously, it was hardly ever appropriate fare for a young child.

So, yeah. Castle never thought of himself as particularly gifted at cooking, but - there is a point in everybody's life when experience comes to outweigh the lack of natural ability.

Of course, by the time he married Gina, he'd gotten used to being the one in charge of the menus, with occasional help from his mother and daughter, and his second wife had made no attempts at changing things.

When he wasn't home to feed her, she would simply order in. He'd tried, once, to talk to her about it, to sing the praises of homemade food; Gina had looked at him coldly, and declared that her time was too precious to be wasted cooking.

He'd given up after that.

But yes. His track record does make him extremely sensitive - maybe overly so? - to Kate's waffles. Kate's delicious waffles.

God. He wants to marry her waffles.

He tells her so, and she laughs out loud, the beautiful sound bouncing off her kitchen walls and wrapping around him, making him feel like all is right with the world.

"I don't know, Castle," she answers playfully. "My waffles are pretty hard to please. Not sure you'll manage to convince them."

He takes another bite - oh, heaven - chews it so very slowly, until he cannot do anything but swallow. "I will do anything, Beckett. Anything for these waffles."

She laughs again, that clear, delighted sound, but the light in her eyes has shifted, grown tender, soft.

"Exaggerating a little, maybe?"

She's sitting on the other side of the table, leaning forward, resting her weight on her forearms; she's not even eating. Just - just watching him. Bright green eyes in the morning light, smile lingering on her lips, dark curls spilling over her shoulders.

So beautiful.

He leans in and presses his mouth to the corner of that smile, hovering close, content to simply bathe in her presence, her scent, everything that makes her Beckett.

"Kate," he tells her honestly. "I don't think you realize just how amazing you are."

Her lips quirk again, but the look on her face is still soft, a little awed, like she actually believes him. He feels a strange flare of pride in his chest.

"You say that now because I'm feeding you," she shoots back, but the teasing is half-hearted and hardly there at all, only faint traces in her voice. Like the weight of his love is too much, a blanket that envelops her and that she can't - won't? - shrug off.

He grins, takes a deliberate mouthful of his waffle. "Well, these are pretty amazing, too."

She smiles, teeth and tongue showing, this gorgeous thing that always takes his breath away. "If you're good, Castle, I might give you the recipe."

He pretends to think about it, shakes his head no. She lifts her eyebrows at him.

"No?"

"See, I don't think they will taste half as good if you're not the one making them," he tells her, falsely pensive.

"Oh, I see," Beckett answers laughingly, with a light roll of her eyes. But the faint blush crawling up her chest tells him all he needs to know.

She really does see.

Castle is inspecting the pile of paperbacks on her table, all novels that she took out of the stack by her bed this morning; she's decided that these six are her homework for the upcoming week.

So that she doesn't feel quite so useless anymore.

Not that there's anything wrong with lazing around and um, well, enjoying Castle. Thoroughly enjoying Castle. Uh-huh.

But she needs more to her life. She knows she does, especially now that the first shock, the first daze of resigning, of handing in her gun and badge and telling Gates to keep them, has dissipated.

Her mother was never a stay-at-home mom, not even when Kate was a little girl; she was always working, always so busy and energetic and focused, and Beckett sometimes wonders if this is the main reason why she can't picture herself as a housewife.

Because it's so far away from everything that Johanna Beckett was to her.

Or maybe it's because she's been alone for so long. She's used to making her own decisions now, used to thinking of herself first and foremost, and caring for a family-

It's still something that she has trouble envisioning.

"Interesting choices," Castle observes, sliding the third book out of the pile and flipping through it. He's sitting at the table, and she leans over his shoulder, hands resting lightly on his biceps as she breathes him in, gets a look at the book.

Ian McEwan's Atonement.

She read an amazing review of that one; she can't wait to get to it. She's got the movie too, somewhere in her apartment - she didn't want to watch it before she'd gotten a chance to read the book.

"Hey, Kate?"

Castle is twisting his neck to try and get a view of her; she deserts his back as she hums an answer, walks around him to sink into the next chair. Uh-oh. He has that thoughtful look on his face that generally means trouble-

"Have you ever thought of working as an editor?"

She starts laughing, stops herself when she sees the seriousness in his eyes. Oh.

"Um," she hedges, not sure where he's going with this. "No, Castle. I mean, obviously I've got no experience at all-"

"But you're a good reader," he counters enthusiastically, his whole face lighting up at the idea. Oh jeez. "You've got a really well-developed sense of what makes a good story. I mean, every time you and I have discussed-"

"Castle. We hardly ever agree-"

"Not true," he objects excitedly. "We agree on lots of things. And when we don't agree, it's even better, because you always make good points that lead me to reconsider mine."

She gapes at him, a little stunned, a little disbelieving (better, really? Even the fight they had last week about Persuasion?). Editing - she has no idea what the job would even be like-

"Kate," Castle says, voice calmer now, like he realizes he's only freaking her out. He puts a hand on her knee, his wide palm encompassing her skin, and the warm grip helps her focus. "I'm not saying this is what you should do. I'm just saying, you probably have everything it takes, and if you've got any interest in the job at all - you should give it a try."

He says that like it's easy. Like there are jobs everywhere just waiting for her.

Oh - he - there probably are. "I know lots of people," he adds with a shrug and a small smile. "Not just at Black Pawn, but bigger houses like HarperCollins or Sterling. So why not?"

Ah. She's not thrilled with the idea of using his connections to get anywhere, but she's got to admit - if she only wants to try it for a short time, get an idea of what the job is like, then...

"And even if you don't want to be an editor? All these houses have people whose job is only to read unpublished manuscripts and write reviews for them. You know, cut the wheat from the chaff? You wanna spend your summer reading, Kate, you can make some money out of it."

He stops speaking; he must know her well enough to give her the silence she needs to make up her own mind. She watches him for a long time, considering. His face is open, his eyes gentle; he's just waiting on her, trying so hard not to push.

She finds herself smiling against her will. "You really think I'd be good at it?"

"Yes," he answers immediately, so confident. "Yes, Kate. You're - god, you're one of the smartest people I've ever met."

Hmm. Obviously, he's in love with her, and a little blinded, but it's sweet anyway.

She releases her breath, takes a decision. "Okay. Sure. Why not."

"Yeah? I can call a couple guys I know, have them call you back as soon as they can-"

Kate leans in and cuts him off with her mouth, sliding her tongue past his open lips, against the ridge of his teeth, into the hot wetness of his mouth. He hums in surprise and then kisses her back with abandon, his fingers winding around her neck; the hand that was on her knee moves up to her waist, caresses the inch of exposed skin.

"You do that, Castle," she tells him breathlessly when she lets go, hovering at his jaw still. She drops a kiss there, then rises to her feet, walks away from him, sways her hips because she knows he's looking. And then she pauses, looks back at him over her shoulder, invitation and challenge both. "I'll be in my room."